


Blackbirds Follow

by PartyGottinSpont



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartyGottinSpont/pseuds/PartyGottinSpont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War. It ravages the innocent and its after effects are crippling. Every time you think you've overcome it, it comes back for another round. A choice must be made: keep fighting or surrender. Change or bow down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackbirds Follow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a self-insert of sorts. No, she is not a member of a clan nor does she have a bloodline. Next chapter the story will begin. This is more of just an overview of what's happened up to a certain point. Please review and tell me what you think about it.
> 
> Oh! I should mention that this first part takes place during the end of the year 2025; half a year before the USA's 250th birthday.

**Prologue**

* * *

 

The scent of ash and burning bodies was suffocating as I focused on not choking on my own blood. Years of nose bleeds kept me from really noticing the taste on my tongue despite how prominent it was. A gun shot echoed through the empty street, but I could not gather the strength to flinch. I knew that the sound of bullets tearing through flesh, metal, and dirt was coming from around the corner and yet it seemed all so very far away. A bitter smile stressed my chapped, split lips, but I paid it no mind.

Above me the clear, crisp winter sky was slowly being invaded by columns of black. With no white clouds to intercept the enemy, the blue was fading from my line of sight. Somehow it seemed to reflect the battle all around me perfectly. These people had only wanted to continue struggling through their daily lives in this new America. No one had expected the fiery explosion of troops from the South on what few had dubbed 'Peace Day.’ That belief had not erased the harsh reality that they were quickly being overrun and their streets were covered in their blood.

A long time ago I might have charged into the thickest of the fighting to defend these people. I would have been damned if I did anything less than give my all to save at least someone. At one time I hadn't hesitated to make myself the hero.

Things were different now. I have lost too much to throw away what little remained. My will to defend the weak had been snuffed out the day I found out that I could not defend my own flesh and blood. My child had been lost in this retched war that was and was not a civil war between the North and South. Any love I had left for those who needed me was covered in a brittle shell of indifference. I had failed my own; I dare not succeed for others.

Tanned hands rested lifelessly atop the gaping hole where my stomach used to reside. I wasn't sure if I did it because it was comforting or because it was a subconscious attempt to keep the red within. The answer to that mystery was unimportant as I gazed through brown hair at the roof of a nearby building, flames licking at the trees beside it as if impatient to taste a particularly favored treat. Several birds that had either been too frightened to move or were deaf fled their home.

It was strange how easily I could focus on those dark winged creatures as they circled once, twice before disappearing over the houses. One would have assumed that the piercing screams that were tapering off as more were killed would have held my attention; demanded it. It didn't but I guess spending so many years in their war was the cause. It was hard to pretend to be shocked when a person collapsed to the ground after being struck when you were usually the one doing the striking.

A cough battled its way out of my throat. It would have sounded perfectly normal if not for the tangible wet quality to it. While it did not take a medic to know that I was slowly drowning on dry land, it did allow me to guess how much longer I had.

The breeze disturbed some left over trash from a knocked over garbage can, failing to rise the goose flesh it might have had earlier. One can in particular was able to draw my eye and I nearly laughed. Though it had been wrapped in black construction paper to keep its identity hidden, its tumble had torn away just enough for a red and blue logo to stare out at the crumbling world. Months before hell had made itself known to us commoners; Coke had managed to buy out its greatest competition. Oh, my bunkmates had been so upset over it like so many others. If only that light comic relief had lasted.

Beyond that can was a scrap of orange something. The color never had much appeal to me since I was rather fond of blues and greens. Yet, after discovering a cheerful blue eyed blond with a twisted streak for trouble, orange never failed to bring a sincere smile from me. Yea, those had been good times. Given, the man behind the blond had made so many mistakes that half the fandom hated him, but at least its popularity held out longer than Bleach's. I wasn't aware when my eyes drifted shut but it was always my impression that my smirk hadn't been completely sardonic.

* * *

I was shocked once upon a time while setting up my mother's blue ray. My fingers had easily sorted their way through the mess of cords, some of which were not connected at either end while others were attached to the wrong machines. One cord in my way was naked and live when the tips of my fingers brushed against it. Still, that had nothing on the molten energy dancing between my lungs and through my heart.

Under the influence of the foreign substance my muscles jerked, twisting my limbs into unnatural positions. Nails, longer than I remembered, bit into my unusually soft palms.

Eager pants filled the air around me as the source of my pain was cut off. Murmured voices sounded from somewhere above, but I dared not open my eyes. Rumors; they were supposed to be only rumors that the troops of the South and soldiers of the North collected prisoners of war. The fate of such people were often said to be torture, slavery or to become medical experiments. It was baffling, terrifying to know that they would go through such trouble to save my life only to turn around and destroy it.

Shifting my attention back to the outside world kept me from wandering too far down that line of though; words I'd long since stopped trying to hear registered in my brain, bringing with them a single name.

Japan.

Concentration furrowed my brow as I strained to hear more, to puzzle out what was being said. The harder I listened the more gurgled their speech became. It wasn't until an all too familiar word came up that I realized what was wrong. My captures were speaking as if Japanese was anything but their native tongue, miss pronouncing the simplest of words. Not that I'd be able to do better.

Despite this new discovery, a sigh relaxed my body as I succumbed to the gentle sway of exhaustion.

* * *

My time continued in a predictable pattern after that.

The first time I was released from sleep's hold it was to the knowledge that a plastic tube had been shoved down my throat. A shuddering, wheezing sound from my right reminded me of those old, dusty machines that hospitals kept around to help people breathe. There was no need to open my eyes and confirm the existence of my IV or respirator. Shifting my face away from the annoying sound did little to ease my headache or the itch of new skin across my stomach. Unconsciousness could not have had come any faster.

Upon my second moment of awareness I attempted to open my eyes. For a moment fear overrode my senses as my eyelids struggled to open, heart pounding a broken staccato against my ribs. Then the faint crusting around my eyes cracked, letting in the entirely too bright world. My eyes squinted under the assault, but I was determined to resist the need to shut them. As my pupils constricted colors popped into existence. Contrast and color were easy to see but the lines were blurred beyond recognition.

Abstract art in all its glory.

I did not bother to open my eyes again after that. My vision had been deteriorating faster than I had wanted it too as I grew older and I did not wish to know that its speed had only picked up since I had been shot. I could think of no torture worse than hearing but never seeing the world.

Time was passing. I knew this and yet, without a clock or calendar, I had no idea of its speed. Between my periods of consciousness only seconds could have passed or weeks could have rolled by and I was none the wiser.

Around my 50th or so awakening things began to change. No words could ever describe my appreciation to whoever deemed me healthy enough to remove my breathing tube. It did take most of my self-control not to vomit but that did nothing to kill my joy. The removal of that cursed thing meant that my lungs were strong enough to keep me alive without any support. I was getting better, though perhaps that was not a good thing. The faster I healed, the sooner I would meet my fate.

Sometime later I awoke to something large and rough brushing through my ridiculously short hair. It was an unconscious decision on my part to lean my oddly heavy head into the touch. Any embarrassment I might have otherwise felt was demolished by the breathy chuckle I earned. The man flicked my nose gently, causing me to wish I could laugh, if only a bit hysterically. My throat absolutely refused to indulge me however.

He came back multiple times after that, often playing with the ends of my hair. Though I was unable to understand why he visited me when I was a prisoner, I still took what comfort he offered me without shame. Aside from my near constant visitor my only human interaction came in the form of silent nurses pressing harsh, cold items over my heart. To say I preferred the laughing man was an understatement.

As most adults are bound to, I had long since forgotten what it felt like to be held in the arms of a parent or caregiver. So when I woke in the comparatively large and curiously protective arms of my visitor I froze. Now, I was not some short, petite woman. I was 5'7 and quite capable of defending myself if need be. Despite all of that, I was tucked carefully in the arms of the laughing man with my blanket covered feet barely touching his opposite bicep.

The piercing wail was most diffidently my own.

He stiffened for a moment, probably completely caught off guard and somewhere underneath my panic I wondered if I was the first crying baby he had dealt with. Obviously during our time together I had never shown this side, so it most likely was. His arms pulled me closer as he rocked me to try and calm me down. While it was a good strategy, I couldn't find it in myself to enter my right mind. I was 33 years old and spent 15 years becoming one of the best soldiers the North had to offer. I watched my own child die and was left helpless as my best friend was burned alive. I could not be a newborn again.

No.

As he whispered soothing words into my ear while resting my forehead against his shoulder, the analytic part of my brain began to churn and spit out cold, hard facts. I was an infant, there was no denying that. My heart had probably stopped before I first woke up and the searing pain had been the nurses restarting said heart. The discomfort of growing skin was more than likely due to surgery. Above all else, the man that held me was most likely my father.

I felt him sag in relief as my cries died down; that alone sent a jolt of guilt through my heart. In my past life I had not known my birth father and the closest I ever had to a dad had dropped me like a hot potato when my mom divorced him. Clutching as hard as I could to the collar of his shirt, I swore to not lose him. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I found myself parent-less once again.

Time picked up after that and I began to notice things before that I had ignored. One such thing was my diaper. I had known that I never used the bathroom, but wearing a diaper would have been pretty far down my list of reasons why. Though, that was due more to embarrassment than my medical knowledge. The mortification of such a thing was burned into the back of my mind for the rest of my life. I was in the hospital for only another week at best before my dad finally took me home. I wish I could say that I knew where I was the moment my eyes settled on the cliff face that bordered one side of my town but I did not. During the minutes we walked by a building that might have told me exactly where I had ended up, I was distracted. At the time, listening to my father's voice and studying his face seemed so much more important. Questions rose in my mind like: is my hair as dark as his? What caused the scar running across his forehead? Would I have a sharp nose like he did?

Instead of the boring greys, whites, and occasional blacks of the hospital I was finally seeing real colors. I had the impression of newly budding trees, and my skin was slightly chilled. So long without visual stimulates had left me starry eyed on the trip to our apartment. In the sun's light I was able to spot the small burst of honey brown in my father's mostly blue eyes. His shirt no longer looked black but was a deep blue. The yellowish undertone to his skin proved to actually be olive. Not to mention the suspicious streak of something like blue in his black hair.

Home was, by an adult's standards, rather cramped. Every inch of wall had some form of furniture pushed up against it. They ranged from kitchen counters on the left-hand side to a couch in one corner to an unheard of number of book shelves. There was no bedroom or bed. Instead, I would later find out that the love-seat unfolded into a slim bed, but it was more than enough space for the two of us. The words he spoke as we moved over the threshold would forever be lost to me, but I always liked to think he said one simple, little phrase.

"Welcome home."

* * *

I was staring fiercely at a book my dad had left on the floor when I first saw him wearing it. My vision was giving me a hell of a time understanding anything that was less than a foot from my face and not at least as large as a coffee pot, but I still saw the green vest for what it was; a flak jacket. The book that had lain beside me was completely forgotten as I watched my father place a cloth around his forehead, the silver plate catching my eye the most. He seemed to notice my fixation because suddenly I was in his arms and he was running one of my hands over the carving. It was not difficult for him to mistake my shock for awe and merely gave me his trademark breathy laugh. I hardly paid him any mind as I was stuck into a baby harness that hung from one shoulder to the opposite hip, placing us chest to chest. My father walked us out of our apartment before leaping along the building tops, the cool air drawing me back from my pit of disbelief.

Of course, when I had been younger and Naruto had been more popular, I had read my share of fanfiction, but this was ludicrous. There was no way that I was in what most had called a 'self-insert.'

Not a chance.

No.

Absolutely not!

My wayward thoughts were interrupted by a squeal that said so much no matter what language barriers were in the way. The close up of his chunin vest was disrupted by dainty, pale hands. I heard my father's light sigh and wondered if he was thrilled about the attention I was bringing. I had known a good deal of men who would have loved the female attention they earned because they were carrying a child.

My previous denial came back in full force when I was greeted by a grin wide enough to crinkle the two purple marks on the child's face. Short, brown hair bordered her slightly round cheeks as she poked my belly in wonder. Her large eyes darted up to my father's face before returning to me and I figured she must have asked my name.

"Minori," she repeated softly, trying out the name on her tongue. It had taken me a few days to learn that it was my name, and it was strange to hear someone other than dad say it. The brunette hummed in satisfaction as she held me in her arms.

"Rin?"

She half turned at what I knew was her name, but, because of the way she held me, I could not see who had called. I only had a second to stew in my curiosity before a boy stepped beside her. Now, it might have been a while since I had last read the manga, but there was no way I could have ever mistake the identity of the male. Rin happily chirped some garbled version of Japanese to the impassive boy who merely eyed me when the brunette mentioned my name. Neither he nor I had a chance to object to the idea before I found myself pushed into a surprised Kakashi's hands. It did not take a genius to see that the genius hadn't a clue as to what he was doing seeing as he wasn't supporting my head at all. That changed though when a soft baritone spoke from behind the silver haired brat.

As if the cosmic powers were having a laugh at my expense, the next set of hands I was placed in belonged to a man that had a fanbase nearly as large as Sasuke's. Yellow and blue filled my vision. At first glance I saw the man his son would grow to be, but the image was shattered as a loud cry came from the door my father had brought me through. I caught his name the same time that his face leaned over me. Some might have melted into a puddle at the sight of a 9 year old Obito Uchiha, but all I could think about was all the pain he would cause; the terror and spilt blood.

Some of my intent must have shown on my face because my pudgy fingers merely slipped harmlessly through Obito's dark hair as his teacher pulled me away. Minato looked down at me with a quirked eyebrow as if he was looking at a child who had tried to steal a cookie before dinner. Thankfully that was the moment my dad recaptured me, speaking happily enough to the genin squad. A small, twisted part of me found it immensely hilarious that instead of being born with the Rookie 9, I was born shortly after Team Minato became Team Minato. During the Third Great Shinobi War.

"Yuuta." Dad glanced over the shoulder of the blond at the word. He bowed politely to the freshly minted genin and jonin team, and strolled purposely towards a long desk. Multiple people sat behind said desk, but it was the man in the very center that drew my attention the most. The Sandaime Hokage; only younger-ish.

I understood the gleam in the Hokage's eye as he examined me. He had always been shown through rose colored glasses as a kind, patient grandfather of sorts. That was not what I was seeing. Hiruzen Sarutobi saw one thing in me and one thing only: a potential kunochi. With a faint smirk, the old man motioned my father to take a seat at the desk. It would be during the long hours at the mission desk that I came in contact with nearly every genin, chunin, and jonin of Konohagakure.

* * *

"Yosh! We will complete this mission in 3 days or I shall run 1000 laps around Konoha on my hands!"

I giggled at the 11 year old as he accepted the scroll I held out to him from my position on my father's lap.

"How was your birthday, Minori?" Genma rolled a senbon from one side of his mouth to the other, leaning casually against the desk. Gai's face went slack as his gaze darted between me and the waiting preteen.

"It was great," I enthused, leaning forward after glancing around to spy any eased droppers. I knew that with everyone present being ninja that what I said would be heard by all, but I think I earned extra points for drama. Genma indulged my request that he move closer and I held one hand up to the side of my mouth, whispering loudly, "Daddy got me some training scrolls and promised to teach me how to use my chakra."

A grin tugged at one corner of the genin's lips and I was aware of the amusement of a several lingering shinobi.

"Guess I better be on the lookout, less you steal my job." Genma's quip brought some chuckles from our audience.

"Wait! I missed the young Minori's birthday," Gai cried out in horror. His hands slammed onto the desk top, scattering scrolls as he leaned forward. "How can I make up for my most un-youthful mistake?" In my three years of going to work with my father I had yet to see this side of Konoha's Green Beast. Baffled meet the understatement of the year.

"Perhaps a rain check," my dad intervened smoothly while pulling me back by one of my pigtails. Gai blinked owlishly at my, then a 19 year old, father before agreeing happily.

* * *

Two years later found me waving a thin book about safe kunai handling in my dad's face, interrupting his reading. A tilt of his head was all the prompting I required. "I read it without needing help!"

I beamed at the proud smile that flashed across his lips. The screwy version of Japanese Konoha used had been proving more difficult to learn than the original. Speaking and understanding it had been trying but I had accomplished it by the age of 3 for the most part. Reading the language was harder to overcome than the colonist during the Battle of Bunker hill, but, like those colonist, it was eventually defeated.

If only learning to write it was as easy.

"Do you feel up to going to the park," Yuuta asked softly and I felt my grin begin to ache from the force of it. My father believed in not dishing out compliments and praises unless he truly felt that the situation permitted it. In exchange for this type of attitude, he would often take me out to the park or some such thing as an unspoken reward. I found his way of parenting both odd and enjoyable since I had always disliked being showered in praises that I knew I was not worthy of.

Grasping his right hand as I ran up to his side, I gave it an experimental tug and said, "Can we go now?"

He simply nodded his head in response, setting down the thick book that had previously sat in his lap and stole my book to place it on his. It was easy to love Yuuta when he dropped everything he was doing just to spend time with me and I truly appreciated it. My hands stilled with my foot only partly inside one of my sandals as I processed what I had just admitted to myself only to stumble upon surprise.

My eyes were wide as I looked up to where Yuuta was searching for the house keys. I placed a hand over my mouth, curled into myself as I thought about it. I loved this man; a man who was a little over 21. He was everything that I had never had as a child and there was no way of doubting just how much he cared about me in return.

The black sleeve of my shirt muffled the sound of my sniff and I returned to putting on my sandals, trying to overcome the urge to cry. The last man who had entered my life with the presence of mind to attempt to be a father to me came along too late. I had already been an adult and I had never been able to see him as much more than my mother's husband. Yuuta, however, had arrived at the perfect moment. True, I was an adult in my mind, but I was also a child. There were just things I couldn't do without him and he had willingly taken on the responsibilities. He had wormed his way past my guard without my notice, the bastard.

"Are you okay?"

Cursing in my head, I rubbed at my left eye with one fist, "My eye hurts."

Warm hands were lifting me up before I had a chance to consider if I wanted to protest. Setting me on his slim hip, my dad pulled my hand away from my face and examined my eye, "I don't see anything, but how about we flush it just in case." I moved to rub at my eye again when Yuuta stopped me, "Don't; if there's something in there you might end up making it worse."

Dim, yellow light filtered through slightly dusty light bulbs after my father flipped the switch in our bathroom. I only managed to get an impression of the faded wallpaper before my head was lowered towards the water running from the tap. Yuuta was careful as he brought the water collected in his hand towards my eye, "Blinks a few times while letting the water touch your eye, okay?"

I did as I was instructed while my brain wandered away from the present. As I grew up, I had always been the one to take care of myself despite the fact that I had a mother who I loved dearly. Whenever I got something in my eye, I was the one to clean it out. I was the person who would disinfect my own cuts and bandage my own wounds. Allowing Yuuta to do all of this for me was almost too easy and I felt a small amount of worry about that; was I losing the independent adult I had grown into?

A soft towel brushed the water from my face, "Better?"

"Yeah," I answered with my best smile, "Thank you."

A similar smile appeared on my father's face as he shifted me onto his opposite hip and carried me into our main room again. His gaze fell to the sky outside and I knew that he was reconsidering going to the park. The dark clouds held the promise of more than just the rain I would have been thrilled to dance in. Catching his right hand in mine, I decided that it would be best if I pretended to have forgotten about our little outing in favor of staying at home. This, of course, became the perfect opening for that question.

"Daddy," I smiled at his answering hum, "What happened to you?"

The disfigured fingers in my palm tensed in surprise at my question, but I did not dare to take my eyes off of him. I knew that it was a personal thing and that it hurt him to recall just why he could no longer consider himself a true shinobi. I could not find it in myself to keep my curiosity to myself as I watched him work at the mission desk every day, trying his hardest to hide the fact that he would have rather been the one accepting the mission. There were so many different paths that a shinobi could take in this world and it confused me greatly as to why he hadn't tried something else. Even with missing fingers, it couldn't had have been hard to keep up on his taijutsu. Why didn't he try becoming a Fuinjutsu user if he was worried about relying solely on his punches? Minato would at least give him a tip or two if he had asked or pointed him in the right direction. The possibilities weren't quite as hopeless as him having to resign himself to clerical duties; a job that was slowly killing him.

His reply was both enlightening and completely devoid of detail, "Kenjutsu user."

So he was going to play that game, fine.

"Why don't you go on missions?"

This time, Yuuta avoided words altogether and simply shook the hand in my grasp as if it were all the answers I could ever need. I worked my lips into the most childish pout I could muster, "But couldn't you do something other than ninjutsu?"

My father finally met my gaze, his blue eyes more uncertain than I think he realized, "What do you think I could do?"

"Taijutsu," I named off the first and most obvious choice, "Fuinjutsu or some type of bukijutsu."

"I can't become a taijutsu user only and I'm afraid that the nerves in my left hand are a bit too shot for me to use a brush well enough to make seals," his words were calm, concise and I found myself both unable to combat what he was saying and surprised to learn that he was more injured than I had thought, "As for using weapons, with 2 1/2 fingers on one hand and shot nerves in the other, there's no way I'd be able to hold one well enough in battle."

My too soft fingertips ran over the scares on his hand, "Couldn't you use chakra to make the weapon stick?"

"I could," my father allowed after a pause, "But what would happen to you if I died?" I saw the sad twist of his lips when I looked up at him, his fingers brushing some of my hair behind my ear, "It might suck to not be a real shinobi anymore, but being your father more than makes up for it. Don't forget that."

Bastard.

* * *

My father must have always believed I would become a kunochi. The picture book of the most common hand seals and a set of wooden kunai gave him away. I knew that he was proud of me whenever he caught me training on my own. Dad would laugh breathily at my antics. He'd ruffle my long, scarlet hair and grin whenever I pouted at him in annoyance. In return he would flick my nose lightly but the adoration in his eyes was heart breaking.

At least, it is now that I think back on it. It was heart breaking because he did not live long enough to see my graduation from the academy; my first high grade. He was not there to send me off to my first day of school with a grin or to register me for the academy. The only man I ever considered my father died before I turned six.

As per my usual Tuesday evening, I was on the floor of our tiny apartment. My legs swung back and forth behind me absently as I read one of the many novels that my father had lying about. He was an avid reader much to my delight, and his collection was never ending. A clock on the wall above my head was ticking lowly, interrupted only by the sound of pages turning. It was an odd comfort that the Narutoverse lacked television shows and the like. Temptation to chill on the couch with a remote was nonexistent.

Dad had come home from the mission desk with dinner on his arm only an hour before. He had ranted up and down about how disgusted he was when he found out how disorganized the mission reports were about a week previous. He had grumbled about how there were D-rank reports mixed in with B-ranks and A-ranks hiding in the C-ranks. Instead of merely speaking with the next person in charge he had skipped them all in favor of storming the Yodaime's office. A small part of me was sad to have not been there.

Needless to say, Dad's 'suggestion' that someone reorganize the reports had been granted with one exception. He had to be the one to do it. That itself had earned a two hour rant about how it wasn't his fault things were that way and how Minato should have given the mission to someone other than 'poor crippled Yuuta Tachibana.' I hadn't been able to repress the need to remind dad that he only liked being called handicapped when it suited him. That one earned me a nose flick.

Since then he spent every other night working late at the office, but never failed to bring home either Ichiraku's or Yakiniku Q. While some might have thought the food was an apology or a treat, I knew that in the morning he would make me work off every bite I had. Most probably would have just had as little as possible to avoid the backlash, but I often splurged on the yakitori (grilled chicken kebabs) or tonkotsu ramen (noodles in pork broth). In my defense, good food was too good to waste.

In my story Shinji was leaping between his best friend, Tadashi, and an incoming kunai when the tranquil was shattered. I had never been chakra sensitive, but I could have been chakra ignorant and still felt it. Dark, heavy: the power in the air was smothering. My head dropped to rest on the wooden floor from the sheer force of it, and my lungs became desperate for air, like all of the oxygen was being devoured. Tears were gathering in my eyes long before my father dashed out of the bathroom wearing a pair of sleeping pants and a tank top.

"Minori," he murmured with a calm voice, always an expert at keeping his worry and fear hidden from me. He lifted me into his arms as if I might break and I honestly felt like I could. My arms wrapped themselves securely around his neck of their own accord, face pressed against his throat. I had been paying attention to the date, but I had hoped that maybe I could have been wrong. Surely my simply being here must have changed something!

It was a fool’s wish.

October's chilly night air nipped at my bare toes as my father leaped from the nearest window. My eyes were locked on the scene behind us and any warning I could have given was trapped in my throat as a huge, sickly red tail came crashing down. Our apartment building was demolished under the weight and for a moment my heart ached for Mr. and Mrs. Soto, our elderly neighbors.

The tail, however, did not stop. It kept coming down; the Kyuubi's tail was coming down and there wasn't anything I could do. I could feel my father's heartbeat underneath the thin shirt he wore; oddly steady despite the sweat that had formed along the back of his neck. My fingers were tangled in the hair at the base of his skull, unable to fully comprehend anything beyond that one line of thought. The tail was going to kill us because I had failed again.

Familiar, comforting hands were on my ribs in half a heartbeat and I was being torn away from the only man I had ever looked up to. I knew that there wasn't a chance that my strength could out match his, but that did not mean that I had simply let go. There wasn't time for him to wince at the pain of his hair being yanked out and there wasn't enough seconds for me to read whatever words were on his lips.

Father...

Any sound I might have made was extinguished as a broad branch broke my fall. My body curled in on itself automatically in defense, but this was a mistake. Leaves cut at my face and arms while gravity yanked me towards the ground. As the packed earth caught me, my lungs were screaming for the oxygen that just would not come fast enough.

Why?

A thunderous roar had me turning my head towards the Kyuubi. Saline stung the scratches upon my face as I watched the beast shift until it was looking at the Hokage Monument, jaws wide while a black ball formed just outside of its teeth. I watched as the chakra ball shot through the air only to disappear in an instant. The Kyuubi screamed as its attention was drawn to where it was most likely being attacked from the ground, taking a step back in the process. I wasn't aware that I was begging the beast to finish me off until a pair of sandal covered feet landed inches from my nose, blocking my view of the battle.

A soft hand grasped my chin, tilting my head until I was looking into a face half covered in shadows. His lips were moving but I lacked the ability to understand the young boy. Confusion flickered across his face before his hands pulled at my wrists, turning so that he could tug me onto his back. As the young shinobi pushed away from the ground, I couldn't keep my eyes from glancing towards where I knew the Kyuubi's tail had buried my father. Hanging lifelessly from the boy’s back, I couldn't help wondering if I was thankful for my blurry vision or not.

The stench of burning buildings tailed me even as the young boy under me struggled to escape the epidemic center of the disaster. The muscles in my hands were demanding for relief, but I dared not to let go for a moment. My forehead was snug against the boy's shoulder as I fought to place a cap on the rushing emotions bursting past the barrier I had kept the darker ones behind. Bruises of all shapes and sized were slowly starting to form across my skin, but they were nothing compared to the weight on my shoulders. Each breath cost me more than I had due to the incredible amount of Kyuubi chakra in the air.

"Shh," my transport hushed me, having felt the tears soaking his shirt, "My mother is a medical shinobi; she'll get you patched up instantly."

I shook my head slowly because he did not understand. He still had a mother to look after him at the very least; he was not alone. Oh, I was alone now. I was alone all over again and this time I wasn't even old enough to pretend to take care of myself.

"Don't worry," he cut off my thoughts once more, "As long as I'm here, you'll be okay."

He did not receive an answer as we finally arrived at the hospital; the sounds of screams and the scent of blood telling me that there had been too many casualties.

"You're one of Megumi's sons, aren't you?"

The boy moved a bit to the side as he tried to keep up with my added weight and I was not feeling charitable enough to make his life easier, "Yes, where's my mom?"

There was a pause as the medic standing with us just outside the hospital examined the boy. I lifted my head so that I could see the expression the man wore over the lad's shoulder, and I felt my arms clinging tighter to the child. In my life I had seen the look on the man's face too many times to really keep track of them all but, that did not mean that I was any less familiar with the process. The sharp sting of my teeth biting into my tongue did not distract me from the guilt that was tripled as I realized that the boy's mother was as well off as Yuuta. This child, that had chosen to save my life and I had condemned for still having a family, had lost his mother when his back had been turned. This child's life was about to crumble around him and I was worried about myself, "She was announced deceased about five minutes ago."

* * *

 A man was rushed past on a gurney, bellowing at the tops of his lungs as the medics tried to stem the blood flowing from where his knee had once continued into his shin. He didn’t seem aware of the shards of glass embedded in the skin along his jaw. I looked back to the boy on his knees, grasping the limp hand that had probably tucked him into bed at night and healed his cuts and scrapes.

They had been told that her ribcage had been crushed under falling debris when she stopped to help an elderly couple escape the fox. Perhaps it would have been easier for the boy if the pair of civilians had at least survived, but they hadn't. The medic that had delivered the news was the same one that dragged her to the hospital where she had been rushed into emergency surgery. There wasn't enough medical shinobi in the building to help her.

It had been a small, easily made mistake that ended up costing the child his mother. You couldn't really blame the civilian doctors because they had tried. They just had not been able to do enough. I stepped out of the room without pause, leaving the boy who tried to save me behind as I did so. There wasn’t anything I could tell him to make him feel better and I did not want to remind him of the reason he had suffered so much. I did not belong at his side.

The hospital hall was congested with bandaged, bleeding patients due to the fact that the building had run out of available rooms. I was careful to pick my way towards the exit even as more people arrived, seeking help that they had to have. A woman with particularly striking green eyes met my gaze evenly as she limped forward, too proud to show just how much the slow action was paining, and ignoring the blonde hair hanging about her face. At one time in my life, I might have moved to help her. As I was then, I had simply continued onwards in my determination to escape a place so full of pain.

Little did I know just how gloomy Konohagakure, my sunny village, would soon become.

* * *

 Kyuubi tore Konohagakure a new one before it was sealed within Naruto. The Yondaime and his wife died in the process while anyone under the age of 18 was banned from participating in the battle. Bodies were burned instead of buried simply because of their sheer number. Konoha mourned the death for days to come and the Sandaime returned to office. Orphans were in abundance, over running the orphanages.

The first place I went after the Hokage’s silent, applaud-less re-initiation was on the far, east side of the village, lying in a place where no one lived. There were two different graveyards for the people of Konohagakure: one for civilians and one for shinobi. My father had, at least, been laid to rest with his comrades in respect to the fact that he was a chunin. It would take me a handful of visits before it would occur to me just how much such a gesture would have meant to him. Being recognized as a shinobi by his peers despite his own view on himself would have made him grin widely in a way that he rarely did.

It would always be my intention to personally thank the man who arranged the plaque placement, but the shinobi would die long before I became a genin.

I spent every day in the cemetery, kneeling in front of the stone plaque that bore my father's name. The characters etched into the plaque never retained my body heat no matter how many times I ran my fingers over them. I just wanted him back; I wanted the world to give my father back because he did not deserve to be dead. If I had not died that morning so long ago or if I had died sooner, Yuuta would not have had me. He might have been out with the chunin from the mission desk or on a date with a woman. Hell, he might have even had his own family and certainty would still be alive right now.

Why was I always fucking shit up?

The earth squelched as I shifted a bit, insistent on not releasing my knees from where they had been kept for the last few hours. Rain had fallen that afternoon, soaking the ground as thoroughly as it had soaked me. I was aware that the hair on my arms had risen in an attempt to keep my skin warm; I noticed the tightness of my back muscles as they shivered in order to produce heat. I couldn't feel the pain or the cold. I was unable to acknowledge much more than the fact that the fault was all mine.

"You're going to catch your death out here."

I'm so sorry.

"I never got you name."

I wish I could trade places with you.

"Right," the boy's voice was beside me now, "Well, I'm going to sit here on this warm, dry blanket and eat this delicious, hot food while you think, okay?"

My stomach cramped as the unmistakable scent of fresh ramen slithered through my nostrils, just begging for me to take a bite. Tears gathered in my eyes as I blinked for the first time in too long, finally giving my attention to the boy who just kept butting into my life. Dark blue hair covered the majority of his expression as he slurped what looked like miso ramen rather noisily. Broth flew about as he ate, one droplet in particular landing on the back of my shaking hand. I stared hard at the innocent liquid, fighting with the urge to lick it off. It wasn’t as if it had actually touched his lips, right?

I was so very hungry.

"Here," a second container of ramen bumped into my slowly raising hand, successfully keeping me from licking the broth from the back of my hand.

"Why do you keep helping me?"

"Well," the boy forced the ramen into my chilled hands, "You keep needing me."

"I don't even know your name."

"I'm Hayato Ichinose," he said with more happiness than any newly orphaned child had any right to possess.

"Minori Tachibana."

Ignoring the grin he wore, I snatched the extra pair of chopsticks and dug into the ramen. Going so long without Ichiraku's was a sin. 

* * *

 Soon enough, it became a daily ritual that Hayato would come to the grave yard where I had made my temporary residence with something for me to eat. His visits were limited to the late afternoons before he would leave and sometimes come back in the middle of the night. It was difficult to live in such a manner, more so when I began to stink from not washing, and my friend would try to convince me to come to the orphanage with him.

Every time, I declined.

“You’re gonna get sick like this,” Hayato shouted, raising his voice at me for the very first time. My lip found itself clenched between my teeth as I ducked my head. It wasn’t that I was trying to kill myself; I knew I was being stupid. That did not mean that I was willing to go to a place where everyone would treat me like a delicate flower of sorts. I wasn’t weak.

“If you don’t come with me today,” he took a deep, fortifying breath, “I won’t come back.”

“What,” my voice snapped without my permission. I found his dark brown eyes, discovering only determination beyond his hesitance to make such a threat. If he never came back, I would lose my only source of food. Worse than that, I would lose the only companion I had left in the village. To force my hand in such a way, Hayato must have believed in what he was doing. Maybe that was why I didn’t outright punch him in the face for being an A class jerk.

“Why,” I questioned him, climbing to my slowly deadening legs, “Why do you never take ‘no’ for an answer?”

The young boy was careful in taking my hand, leading me past the long rows of dead. His words were stated in the same way that one might comment on the time. He said it as if it was fact, “You need me.”

* * *

 After my sixth birthday I was entered into the academy. It wasn't because I wanted to be a kunochi or because someone saw that special something in me. It was merely because our numbers had been severely lowered and Konoha needed more soldiers. There was only one place that they could find kids more than willing without any strings attached: the orphanage.

The first time I saw Hana Inuzuka and Itachi Uchiha was during the academy welcome ceremony.

An instructor was introducing the newest class of students to the academy, but I was hardly paying any attention, instead checking out the crowd. Tsume Inuzuka, though several years younger than the manga ever depicted her, was standing proudly beside a young girl with matching red triangles on her cheeks. The girl's hair was tucked away in a ponytail that couldn't have been longer than an inch or two. Her eyes were not as sharp as her mother's, giving her a more tamed appearance. She kept glancing towards her feet every other word and easily gained my attention.

Moving between the members of the crowd, I soon found myself towards the back where a handful of clan members were with their children. A young boy with dirty blond hair stepped closer to the front and cleared my line of vision. Three small, identical pups were nipping at each other's tails and playing happily between Hana's ankles. Despite my mental age, I was still very much a female and even I wanted to cuddle the little balls of fluff. My chance to step up and possibly make a friend was stolen by the cry of a baby.

Motherly instincts kicked in with a vengeance and I spun on my heel sharply. A few people might have sent me questioning looks as I brushed past them, but they were unimportant. A child was upset and I was determined to find it.

"Shush, it's okay Sasuke."

If the name alone hadn't stopped me in my tracks, the sight of a beautiful woman cradling her son would have. From my position three yards away, I could spot the tuff of dark hair peaking over the wrapped bundle that was Sasuke Uchiha. My eyes shifted from Mikoto to her eldest son. Had I really been 6, I'm sure my face would have reddened at the very idea of being caught staring. Itachi lifted one eyebrow at me that could have meant far too many things. Obviously the safest course of action was to turn back towards the front and pretend I never saw him.

That was how I ended up spending the rest of my short week in his class, but he was the least of my worries.

Hayato had disappeared.


End file.
